


Presuming Me to Be a Mouse

by FrenchTwistResistance



Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-21
Updated: 2019-04-21
Packaged: 2020-01-23 04:15:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18542074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrenchTwistResistance/pseuds/FrenchTwistResistance
Summary: But why didn’t Lilith do a tarot reading for Hilda?!





	Presuming Me to Be a Mouse

The door to the cottage flies open and slams shut. A chill breeze flutters a few literary journals and dried flower petals strewn on the coffee table, but other than that everything is still and calm and untouched by the dramatics of it.

Hilda throws her coat over the back of the couch and harrumphs.

Mary doesn’t turn from marking a student’s essay at her desk but does hum back inquisitively.

“You’re really quite obvious and tacky,” Hilda says as she rounds the sofa and flops into an arm chair. Mary does look up then.

“Oh?” Mary says.

“Don’t ‘oh’ me, love. You know very well what I mean.”

Mary caps her red felt pen and stands.

“I do. But I want you to say it.”

She stands in the middle of the living room, and they’re looking at each other.

“Do sit down. You make me nervous when you stand,” Hilda says. Mary tilts her head back as she laughs, hair wild, lips red, pale throat invitingly exposed. But soon she snaps to attention again, pierces Hilda with her keen, sharp eyes, says deliberately soberly,

“Where would you have me sit, Miss Spellman?” Hilda doesn’t take the bait, says,

“It’s your house, Miss Wardwell.”

They again look at each other. 

And they both remember.

xxx

Hilda had been worried about Sabrina and had come to talk to the principal at her mortal school.

But of course that principal was not a mortal.

And their discussion had taken a turn for the sexy, somehow.

Hilda writhing beneath Principal Wardwell, pressed against a mahogany desk.

It hadn’t been what Hilda had expected, but it was a certain kind of promise, a certain kind of agreement, a certain kind of compromise. Mary would fulfill certain duties, and Hilda would as well. And Sabrina would be safe.

Hilda had accidentally agreed to a lot more than she’d thought initially, had found herself pressed against a lot of surfaces, had found herself pressing Mary against a lot of surfaces. 

About the third or fourth time they met covertly, this time in a storage unit on the trashy side of town cluttered with cardboard boxes and old furniture, a motorcycle—and a host of other conspicuously masculine items that Hilda did not ask about—Hilda, sitting on a dusty divan, straightened her clothing and finally said,

“I don’t want you to take this the wrong way. Or as a complaint or anything of the sort. But um. Is there a reason you decided to seduce me in your office that afternoon?” Mary was perched on a console record player inspecting her cuticles. She didn’t look up, said blandly,

“No particular reason. Just thought you’d be fun.” She did look up then. “I haven’t been disappointed.”

Hilda giggled, fidgeted, said,

“Thank you. I—um—haven’t been either.”

xxx

“It is my house,” Mary says. “And yet you’ve barged in accusing me.”

Hilda gulps down a breath, says,

“You’re right. I’m accusing you because I’m offended. You did everyone else’s. Why didn’t you do my tarot reading?”

Mary then takes the few steps between them and places herself on Hilda’s lap, not gingerly but quite forcefully. Her fingers plunge into Hilda’s shoulders, and she says very close to Hilda’s face,

“What could I say to you that you don’t already know?”

Hilda’s fingers dig into Mary’s sides.

“I know a lot. But not enough about who you actually are.”

Mary cants her hips, says,

“Irrelevant. Fuck me.”

Mary kisses her, and it’s a lot of tongue and teeth and brimstone. Hilda licks at the sulfur there and drags her fingertips over well-moisturized skin. It’s different from the other people she’s groped. Others have been soft and warm and pliable. But Mary is silky and hot and rigid. A taut rope tied tightly to a mast. But the whole ship is on fire. 

Hilda has always had an affinity for both arson and sailing.

“It’s not irrelevant,” Hilda says.

“Fine,” Mary says. “Wheel of Fortune. Means anything you want it to mean. Death. Means a new beginning. Lovers. Means fuck me.”

Mary is kissing her neck, bunching up Hilda’s skirt around her hips so their thighs can feel each other’s skin.

“I never saw any cards,” Hilda says.

Mary pauses, looks at her, smirks.

“Tarot is absolute bullshit. I say stuff to say stuff, infer and imply. But of course you knew that. Which is why I want to lick your cunt rather than pull arbitrary cards from a second-hand deck and make up scenarios about them based on a cold reading.”

Hilda knows that Mary knows she can read minds. She knows Mary has not forgotten this, as there are mental walls up as they speak and grind and touch. She knows that Mary knows that she knows that’s not what those tarot readings had been in the slightest. She knows that Mary got something out of them. And she knows that Mary knows that she knows. But this is another thing that Mary is going to hide and dance around. She decides to shelf the matter for now.

Mary’s teeth are at Hilda’s throat now, and Hilda says,

“Like I said. You’re obvious and tacky.”

“You like obvious and tacky or you wouldn’t be here,” Mary says as she’s unbuttoning Hilda’s blouse. She dips a hand into Hilda’s bra, pinches a nipple, says, “But you also like obscure and elegant.”

Hilda moans, clutches closer, her fingernails indenting and drawing blood. Hilda says,

“I like a lot of things.”

They kiss then. And it’s frenzied. Their mouths connect and devour and compete. Mary is still on top, however. And she uses this to her advantage. Leverage, balance.

Mary continues kissing Hilda and as she does snakes a hand between them, slides up Hilda’s exposed thigh. She nips at her bottom lip, and then a finger is running up and down over Hilda’s damp white cotton panties as she says,

“Do you still want a reading, or do you want something else?”

Hilda groans, and so does Mary, but Mary persists. Her finger finds the waistband of Hilda’s underwear and infiltrates as her voice quiets, says low and right into Hilda’s mouth,

“I’d prefer if you wanted something else.”

Hilda lurches forward, forcing their mouths together again, as Mary’s finger suddenly circles her clit. But then Mary pulls back. Her finger is gone; her mouth is gone. Her hair is still wild, and her mouth is even redder. Her pale throat pulses with unnaturally hot blood, and Hilda stares at that as Mary says,

“I’m tired of all this furtive, quick nonsense. You came to my home. And I think that gives me the right to have you naked in my bed.”

“I’ve come to your home before,” Hilda says. Mary slides off her, shakes out her hair, looks Hilda in the eyes,

“Yes. And I’m tired of wasting opportunities.”

Mary turns abruptly and stalks down the hall. Hilda watches for a second, collects herself as best she can. It takes her only two tries to stand and follow.

Mary’s placing her dress on its wooden hanger into her closet as Hilda enters. She pauses at the threshold to observe Mary’s lithe, sure movements—domestic movements executed in pin-up lingerie and patent-leather high heels. Hilda would pay actual money to watch her iron a pair of slacks or clean a bathroom in black lacy underclothes and pumps. But that’s neither here nor there. As it stands, she’s allowed this, and she enjoys it.

Mary’s smiling at the attention she can feel and finally turns to face her.

“Take off your clothes,” Mary says. Hilda blushes and fidgets, and Mary adds, “Please.”

So Hilda does. She kicks off her shoes first. And then she undoes a few buttons and makes to pull her blouse over her head.

“Slower,” Mary says. Hilda drops the blouse, drops her hands, looks at Mary, who is looking at her. Mary maintains eye contact as she sits on the edge of her bed and says, “Put on a show for me.”

“You want me to strip,” Hilda says. “With no music?” She's fidgeting and blushing again. But Mary is solemn and still and resolute on her bed.

“Yes,” Mary says. “Music is extraneous and distracting. As arbitrary as tarot cards.” She pauses and smiles a dangerous smile full of sharp white teeth. “I just want to watch you undress. I don’t have any singles to shove into the g-string you’d never wear.”

Hilda is not offended. On the contrary, she’s delighted. She doesn’t have any interest in wearing a g-string, and she’s glad Mary is so appreciative of her body as it is rather than as it should be in some pornographic fantasy. She hopes she can deliver. But then again, they’ve had sex many times, and Mary hasn’t been disappointed so far by her own admission. But still Hilda wishes it were darker.

Mary’s dangerous smile becomes a little more dangerous as a cloud covers the full sun. Hilda can’t help but wonder whether her own mind has been read.

But Hilda brings her trembling hands to the remaining buttons of her blouse anyway, unfastens slowly, slinks out, lets the garment drop to the floor. Next she’s unzipping her skirt, and it’s such a loud sound in the silent room. When the skirt falls, Mary gasps and repositions herself on the bed. Hilda reaches back to unclasp her bra, and Mary is touching herself—one hand inside her own bra, the other cupping herself over her lace underwear. Hilda shudders but continues. She’s now bare except for her white cotton panties, which are so soaked through by now that Mary can see the darker curls beneath, and Mary pinches her own nipple and moans about it.

Hilda stands there, waiting for what Mary will have her do next. Somehow she feels she owes her this. It’s a stupid thing to think, but she thinks it anyway. She watches Mary pleasure herself. But it’s a truncated thing. Mary is doing so in the interim, is compelled to do so until the real thing is available. And here is Hilda, on display and mostly nude. Mary’s eyes shoot open, and her hands still. She looks at Hilda, says,

“You’re not naked.”

“Neither are you,” Hilda says. Mary veritably rips off her own bra and panties. Hilda more calmly than she actually feels steps out of her own underwear, and Mary growls,

“Come here.”

Hilda takes a step. And another step. Mary reaches for her and then wrenches her with unexpected strength onto the bed to kiss her and run her hands over her. Hilda’s enjoying this when she feels herself being wrangled and cajoled and wrestled and moved up and up. Before she knows it, she’s gripping the headboard, and Mary’s tongue is inside her, and her own knees are against Mary’s temples.

She grinds herself down into Mary’s face and then says,

“You’d really rather this than—” Mary sucks at her clit, and she bucks. When Mary retreats a little, she also retreats in reciprocity. Mary says against her cunt,

“I’d rather this than almost anything else.” And Mary’s mouth resumes. She’s licking and sucking, and Hilda’s undulating and moaning and after a while coming—clenching around her tongue and screaming Mary’s name, collapsing against the bed posts.

xxx

“I want to see you only this way,” Mary breathes into Hilda’s neck. “That’s why I didn’t do your tarot reading.”

“I know,” Hilda says. “But I’m still offended.”

“No you aren’t,” Mary says.

Hilda hums and drifts into sleep in Mary’s overly hot embrace.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Emily Dickinson’s “I started early—took my dog”


End file.
